


stars had closed their eyes

by henryclerval



Series: or sheathed their knives [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Implied Death, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship, Stream of Consciousness, Tsunderes, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it's all said and done, he still hates the way that Eames' clothes fold over him in lumpy and wrinkled patterns; the way that it scrunches up in parts that he's tugged at in little attempts to get it away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars had closed their eyes

When it's all said and done, he still hates the way that Eames' clothes fold over him in lumpy and wrinkled patterns; the way that it scrunches up in parts that he's tugged at in little attempts to get it away. He hates the floral print, the washed-out pink or coral or salmon--whatever it had been it isn't any longer and he can smell each wash when he's too close. Which is always. He can't seem to distance himself enough--the mismatched prints and patterns glaringly obvious from miles away, causing him physical pain when he sees the blacks and blues haphazardly thrown across a stained, silken blouse. 

He hates the way that Eames shrugs them on, slips them off--a second skin that peels away without a thought as to how they fit and how ridiculous he looks in them. Eames is large and stocky, thick in the head as he is in the shoulders and arms and hands and Arthur hates it. Hates him. Loathes the moment that he wanders over and rolls his joints and muscles and words off his tongue that are remarkably good at giving Arthur headaches. 

Pounding headaches. Awful headaches. Headaches punctuated by inhales and puffs of cigarette smoke, blue clouds to match blue flowers on silk shirts; punctuated by crooked teeth that poke out from when shy smiles grow louder and bolder and courageous, forming words in a slurry; punctuated by the pads of fingers warming parts of Arthur's shoulders and arms and the crooks of his elbows and the veins in his wrists that Eames seems to admire. 

Eames tells him once--in the quiet between headaches, when the warmth of Eames' hands is enough to boil Arthur's ears. Eames tells him over the murmur of a sleeping Ariadne. As Arthur is settling them down to sleep--to work--Eames tells him how nice it is to be watched over by such a handsome fellow, to wake up to him, to know that he's so well cared for. 

It's enough to make Arthur's heart seek shelter in his throat. 

He debates on not bringing Eames out of his coma, leaving him there with the ghost of Arthur's lips on his cheek to slowly wither away and, hopefully, die.


End file.
